CHAPTER II.

BENJAMIN CAUNT (CHAMPION).

1835-1857.[11]

Benjamin Caunt, like his noted opponent Bendigo, was a native of Nottinghamshire. He was born on the 22nd of March, 1815, at the village of Hucknall Torkard, his parents being tenants of Lord Byron, the poet, a fact of which the huge, unsentimental Ben in after-life was fond of boasting. His father having been engaged in some humble capacity at Newstead, Ben had some traditions of the wayward genius, more or less apocryphal. According to his own account (he was certainly a first-rate shot) his earliest employment was as gamekeeper or watcher; his Nottingham opponents insisted on his having been a “navvy.” His size and strength might well fit him for either occupation, his height being 6ft. 2½in., and his weight 14st. 7lb.

Caunt appears at an early age to have aspired to pugilistic honours, and acquired some local reputation by being victor in a couple of battles, of which, however, we have no reliable details. His first recorded contest is, therefore, his encounter with William Thompson, of Nottingham, on the 21st July, 1835, near Appleby House, Notts, when he had just completed his twentieth year, wherein he was defeated by the greater experience, shifty tactics, and superior boxing skill of the afterwards famous Bendigo. (See BENDIGO, Chap. I., page 6, _ante_.)

Caunt’s next appearance within the ropes was attended with better fortune. On the 17th August, 1837, he met and defeated a local celebrity, William Butler, at Stoneyford, Notts, in fourteen rounds, for a stake of £20 a side. In this battle his opponent, a 12-stone man, was beaten by weight, strength, and resolute, though by no means scientific, fighting.

In like manner Boneford, a big one, was polished off in six rounds by “Young Ben,” at Sunrise Hill, Notts, in November of the same year.

In the interval his former opponent had been rapidly rising in fistic fame. He had defeated Brassey, of Bradford (May 24th, 1836), Young Langan, of Liverpool (January 24th, 1837), and Bill Looney, another big one (June 13th, 1837).

These exploits could not fail to attract public attention, and the patrons of the P. R. were anxious to bring the antagonists together once again, an anxiety fully shared by Caunt and Bendigo themselves.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” so in this case preliminaries were arranged with much greater facility than in after-times. The stakes were posted to £100 on each side, and the day, Monday, April 3rd, 1838, fixed for the encounter, the field of battle to be in the neighbourhood of Doncaster.

As a record of times and manners, and modes of travel, we shall give a sketch of how and in what company the representative of _Bell’s Life in London_, then, _quâ_ the Ring, the only sporting “oracle,” was wont to make his way to distant battlefields, ere the steam steed had rendered the mail coach, the “Highflyer,” the “Red Rover,” the “Age,” _et hoc genus omne_, obsolete as public conveyances:――

As “Sheffield, or within 100 miles thereof,” was the mysterious “fixture” for the big tourney, on Saturday evening, at half-past seven, we threw ourselves into the Glasgow mail, on our route to Doncaster, between which town and Selby we had the “office” the affair was to be decided. Adventures in stage-coaches have often afforded topics for amusing detail; but we confess, from the laborious duties which fall to our lot to perform, private as well as public, every week of our lives, the last day, or rather the last night, of the week is not the one we should select as that most propitious to collect materials (if such materials were wanting) for filling a column in our ensuing publication. In taking our place in the mail, therefore, we looked forward rather to the enjoyment of an occasional snooze than to the hope that we should discover any subject on which to dilate at a future period, whether as to the character of our fellow-travellers, the general appointments of the “drag,” or the peculiarities of the coachmen or guards――of the former we had four, and of the latter two, in the course of the journey――and these we will at once dismiss, by stating, at the outset, that they did their duty admirably――taking care, as “in duty bound,” to seek the usual mark of approbation by farewell hints in the common-place terms of “_I leave you here, gentlemen_”――in other words, “_tip_” and “_go_”――a laconic mode of address which by all travellers is well understood, however coolly appreciated when spoken at an open door on a cold frosty night, as that night of Saturday was, and at a moment when you may perhaps have been dreaming of the “joys you left behind you.” Quietness and repose being our first study, we soon placed our hat in the suspending-straps at the top of the mail, and our travelling-cap over head, and then, quietly reclining in the corner with our back to the horses, waited for the “start” from the yard of the “Bull and Mouth.” We found one old gentleman had taken his seat before us, who subsequently followed our example in taking the same side of the coach with ourselves, and was not less careful in guarding himself against the chilling influence of a hard frost. A third gentleman soon after joined us, and thus, “_trio juncta in uno_,” we were whirled round to the Post Office, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, whence we shortly commenced our journey at a slapping pace. On reaching Islington, a fourth passenger, of colossal size, filled up the vacant seat. Few words, if any, were spoken; and the only interruption to the monotony of the night’s travel was the frequent popping out and in of the last-mentioned gentleman to comfort his “inward man” with “drops of brandy,” with which he so perfumed our “leathern convenience” on his return that if we were as sensitive as some Frenchman of whom we have heard (who dined upon the effluvia of the good things he could not otherwise enjoy) we should certainly have been “pretty jolly” before he took his leave of us at peep of day. His departure gave occasion for the first indication that our companions were gifted with the power of speech. Their words were few, and these only had reference to the “spirited” propensities of the gentleman who had just vacated his seat. On this there could be no difference of opinion, and consequently no argument――so that we soon relapsed into the appearance at least of sleep, which we maintained with great perseverance till a brilliant sun shining through the ice-covered windows called forth a remark on the fineness of the morning. This, to our surprise, for we thought ourselves _incog._, was followed by a remark of recognition from the third gentleman who had entered the coach at the “Bull and Mouth,” and who, alluding to quick travelling, recalled to our mind some feats of this sort in which we had been engaged in the course of a twenty years’ connection with the Press. The ice once broken, conversation commenced, with apparent satisfaction to us all, the venerable gentleman on my right joining, and contributing as well as exacting his proportion of information on all manner of topics――public men and public measures, and the public Press, forming prominent subjects of remark, upon all of which our friend on the right seemed agreeably conversant. We soon discovered that our opposite neighbour was going to Leeds, to and from which town he was a frequent traveller; but respecting the other we could form no opinion. Regarding ourselves our secret had been divulged, and we stood forward the confessed “representative of _Bell’s Life in London_.” Sporting of various descriptions opened new sources of gossip, and here we found “the unknown” as much at home as ourselves. It came out, in fact, that he had been a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the Turf for pleasure, but not for profit――that he had been steward at Newmarket, and that, in fact, he knew all the leading Turfites of the age, and was familiar with all the recent important events on the Turf. All this led us to surmise that he was “somebody,” but who, we confess, we did not attempt to speculate. We found him a most pleasant associate, and with that we were content. Upon the subject of our own trip to Doncaster we were silent, for we considered that was “nothing to nobody.” The Ring as connected with our British sports was but slightly alluded to――and against the objections that were made arising out of the late fatal issue of the combat between Swift and Brighton Bill, we argued it was a casualty purely the result of an accident, which might have occurred on any other athletic competition in which no personal animosity existed, and wound up by saying that there was one unanswerable argument even to the opponents of prizefighting, that as by them the principals were invariably considered worthless and deserving of punishment, in becoming the instrument of punishing each other, they were only fulfilling the ends of justice, without the necessity of legal interference. We referred, of course, to the recent painful exhibition of the frequent use of the _knife_, and the strong remarks which the increasing extent of this treacherous mode of revenge had called from the judges; but upon these points our unknown friend, as we take the liberty of calling him, did not seem disposed to break a lance, and the subject dropped. At last we reached Grantham, where our fellow-travellers forewarned us we should have an excellent breakfast, and certainly one served in better taste or in greater profusion we never enjoyed. Here we met in the same room the Quaker member for Durham (Mr. Pease), on his way to the north, between whom and “the unknown” there was a friendly recognition, but we still made no effort to lift the veil by which he was enshrouded. On again taking our seats in the mail, we were alone with the old gentleman, our Leeds friend having mounted the roof, so that we had it all to ourselves. The chat was as pleasant to us as before――new topics were broached, and the description of the localities through which we passed――the “Dukery” (a sort of concentration of ducal seats), &c.――afforded us both amusement and information. Now, for the first time, when conversation flagged, on watching the physiognomy of “the unknown,” we imagined there was a meaning smile on his countenance, which seemed to say, “This fellow does not know to whom he is talking,” and we confess we began to try back and see whether we had said anything to which exception could be taken; and more especially whether anything had dropped from us whence the intent of our journey could be collected; for we began to suspect we had been talking to a _beak_, who was going down expressly to spoil sport, and who was chuckling within himself at the disappointment we were sure to incur. But all was safe――we had kept our secret, and from anything that had dropped from us everything was as “right as the day;” indeed we dismissed the thought of treachery from our mind, and we are now glad we did so, for it would have been most unjustly adopted; for, although a _beak_ of the first magnitude was in truth before us, we are persuaded he had no sinister feeling towards us or the sport we anticipated. But we have spun our yarn longer than we had intended, and will come to the _dénouement_ at once. We now rattled into the clean and quiet town of Doncaster with the customary flourish of the horn, and reached the “Angel” safe and sound. As we had collected that our companion was going no further, we were satisfied our doubts as to his real character would soon be removed; they were, sooner than we expected; for scarcely had he stepped forth when “MY LORD!” was congratulated on his safe arrival. My lord! thought we, and following his example, our first effort on stretching our cramped limbs was by a respectful touch of our _tile_ to acknowledge the honour we had enjoyed――an honour, by-the-bye, which confirmed us in the good old maxim, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” An answer to a simple question soon put us in possession of the “great secret.” It was to a noble Baron who was about to preside at the Pontefract sessions we were indebted for a pleasing relief to a tedious journey; and while we acknowledge his lordship’s kindness and urbanity, permit us to add that there was not a sentiment uttered by him in our presence to which we do not heartily respond. We are sure it will be gratifying to our _milling_ readers to hear that although the fight which has given occasion for this episode was announced to take place in the district of Pontefract, formerly represented by a _milling_ member,[12] neither our noble companion nor any of his sessional coadjutors offered any interference.

At Doncaster we had our “_tout_” (we hope he will excuse the use of a professional title), for whom we immediately sent, but he was profoundly ignorant of the all-important place of rendezvous――a fact at which we rejoiced, as it was clear the necessary secrecy had been observed. However quiet at Doncaster, at Sheffield, Nottingham, and all the surrounding towns, even to Manchester and Liverpool, all was bustle and commotion. The Fancy, of all degrees, were on the alert, and the roads, on Sunday evening, leading to Doncaster, were thronged, not only with pedestrians, including no small proportion of “hard-ups,” but with vehicles of every imaginable description――flies, phaetons, gigs, and fish-carts, all laden to dangerous excess, and with a perfect disregard to the qualities of the horses engaged in the service; it seeming to be an admitted principle that on such occasions the _tits_ were not only “warranted sound and free from vice,” but masters of any indefinite proportion of weight. As Doncaster was the grand _débouche_ through which the cavalcade must necessarily pass towards the “fixture,” the innocent inhabitants were soon enlightened respecting the approach of some extraordinary event, the character of which was quickly divulged. The whole night long the rattle of wheels, the pattering of horses’ feet, and the shouts of the anxious throng, proclaimed the interest which was felt, and the wild spirit which was abroad. “The Selby road!” was the cry; and on crossing the Don, at the foot of the town, a short turn to the right threw the nags into the right direction, to the no small gratification of the collector at the turnpike gate, although rather to the discomfiture of many who had the “bobs” to “fork out;” but fights are of rare occurrence nowadays, and for such a luxury expense is no object.

Askerne, or Askeron, a neat little village seven miles from Doncaster, on the Selby road, celebrated for its sulphurous spring――which rises from a fine piece of water called Askerne Pool, and which is much visited by patients afflicted with rheumatism and other diseases――was the first grand halting-place, and here, at the “White Swan,” had Bendigo, under the _surveillance_ of Peter Taylor, of Liverpool, taken up his abode. In and about this house an immense multitude had assembled. Caunt had travelled further afield, and at the “Hawke Arms,” a new inn about two miles further, had pitched his tent, attended by young Molyneaux, the black, his honoured parent, and divers other staunch and sturdy friends. The ring was formed in a field a short distance from the road, about half way between the “Swan” and the “Hawke,” by the Liverpool Commissary, and all looked well. Soon after ten o’clock we made our appearance at the “Swan” in a post-chaise, and drove up to the motley group in front of the house. Our appearance was no doubt suspicious, and from the scowling looks of some of the “hard-ups” with whose private signs we were unacquainted, we were evidently regarded with more fear than affection. At last, recollecting that we had seen Izzy Lazarus down the road, and knowing that he is regularly installed as a publican in Sheffield, we asked for him, in order that he might be our cicerone to his friends. The “poy” soon made his appearance, being a full stone heavier than when he left town, and recognising us, he made known the agreeable intelligence that “’twas t’editor of Bell’s Loife in Lunnon”――an announcement so unexpected, and apparently so agreeable, that when we descended from our trap we verily believe the sudden appearance of a hippopotamus would not have excited more astonishment. “What,” cried one, “is that t’editor of Bell’s Loife? Well, I’m dom’d if I didn’t take un for a gentleman!”――while another declared he “thought it were summat worse, for he took un for a _beak_, or summat o’ that koind.” Our opinion was not asked as to our notions of these critics; but certainly had we been put to our oath we should have said they were some of the “unwashed from the Hardware Country,” who had come thus far to perform their ablutions in the Pool of Askerne――a ceremony which the dust of the roads, and the hasty manner in which they had performed their toilets preparatory to their “stopping up all night to be up early in the morning,” rendered requisite.

We did not wait to bandy civilities, but proceeded direct to the dormitory of Bendigo, whom we found, like a bacon sandwich, comfortably encased between two slices of flannel, vulgarly called blankets. It was the first time we had the honour of an interview, and we made our salaam with due reverence, while the object of our embassy was duly announced by Peter Taylor. Bendigo appeared uncommonly well, and was in high spirits. He is a rough, handy-looking fellow, very muscular, and as we were informed weighed but 11st. 10lb. His seconds, we were informed, were to be Taylor and Nick Ward, and, judging from his manner, he seemed to have booked victory as already secure. To all present we enjoined the expediency of getting early into the ring, as there was a gentle whisper before we left Doncaster that the constables were on the alert. From the “Swan” we proceeded to the “Hawke,” where our presence was not less a matter of surprise. We soon obtained an introduction to Caunt, who was assuming his fighting costume. He expressed his joy at seeing us, but proceeded _sans cérémonie_ with the adornment of his person. His father sat by his side, and if having a gigantic son is a source of pride he has sufficient to render him doubly so, for the hero of the day proved to be a fine young fellow, two-and-twenty years of age, standing six feet three inches in height, and weighing fifteen stone and a half, apparently active, strong, and full of confidence. Comparing him with Bendigo, it was a camelopard to a nylghau; and yet Bendigo was the favourite at five and six to four――a state of odds which seemed unaccountable when the disparity in size was considered. Having here also urged the wisdom of taking time by the forelock, we returned towards the ring, which by this time was surrounded by a most numerous and heterogeneous crowd, many of whom carried sticks of enormous size, and presented aspects which to eyes polite would have been far from inviting. We knew, however, that “rough cases often cover good cutlery,” and we were not disposed to form our opinion from the outside alone, and more especially when we were aware that many of these hardy ones had toddled the whole way from Sheffield or Nottingham, or places equally distant, to witness the prowess of their favourite champion.

The adage of “the cup and the lip” was in this case, as in many others before, again illustrated, for just as we were about to enter the field some half-dozen horsemen rode up, and in an authoritative manner forbade, not the banns, but the fight, in terms, however, so persuasive and agreeable that it was impossible to be angry: in fact, there were so many doubtful-looking sticks performing evolutions in the air, and so many grim visages watching those evolutions, that their worships (and they proved to be veritable J.P.’s, attended by a posse of constables well mounted) evidently thought that the _suaviter in modo_ was the safest game, and therefore, while they indicated their determination to preserve the peace, they assured the mobocracy they would not do more, provided the combatants “mizzled out of the West Riding.” Some were for bidding defiance to legal authority so weakly supported, but Jem Ward, who now came up, assured their _beakships_ that due respect should be paid to their behests, and with this assurance a mutual feeling of confidence was established.

The men were now in their respective carriages in the main road, waiting for the “office,” when Jem Ward, who assumed the friendly character of director, after consulting with persons well acquainted with the localities, determined that the next move should be to Hatfield, about seven miles distant, and within a short run of Lincolnshire. This he publicly declared to be the final resolve, and, sending a horseman to the Commissary and the men, started forthwith for his destination, to prepare a suitable and unobjectionable spot. He was attended by Young Langan, who carried Bendigo’s fighting-shoes, Hackett, who was to have been Caunt’s second, and a numerous cavalcade of charioteers and horsemen, who reached the “Bell” at Hatfield in quick time. Had his arrangement been adopted all would have gone off well, but unfortunately there were too many masters and too little of system. A new leader sprang up in the person of Grear, the sporting sweep of Selby, who, being perfectly well acquainted with the localities of the country, as well as anxious to take the fight nearer his own quarters, led the way towards Selby, followed by a prodigious crowd, and, from some misunderstanding, by the combatants in their carriages. The new commander gave hopes that the ring might be formed before they reached the Ouse, which divides the West from the East Riding, but although several attempts were made it was no go, for the constables kept up with the vanguard, and the passage across the Ouse became indispensable, many of the company in the rear――horse and foot as well as charioteers――falling off dead beat. Those who were able to keep up their steam, however, crossed the bridge over the Ouse into Selby pell-mell, to the no small astonishment of the inhabitants, and the crowds of market people who were assembled with their wares. One old lady, almost petrified at such a sudden incursion, in great agitation inquired what had brought so many “gentlemen” into the East Riding. “Oh,” said a wag, “there’s a rebellion in the West, and we’re all driven over the river.” “Lord help me,” cried the old lady, “I live at Ricall, and ye’ll eat us all up!”

Grear, undismayed, pushed on, and knowing every inch of the country, did not halt till he got nearly four miles beyond Selby, when he turned down a romantic lane to the left, opposite Skipworth Common, and in a large field a few removes from the main road, near the bank of the river, the ring was, with great labour, formed; and the crowd, which had received fresh accessions from the town of Selby and surrounding country, collected round it. There were but few of the original followers able to reach this distant point, and thousands were thus deprived of the object of their long and wearisome journey, as well as dissatisfied with a move which, had Ward’s directions been obeyed, would have brought them nearer home, with a more certain chance of proceeding to business without interruption.

“What cannot be cured must be endured;” and Ward, as well as his unfortunate companions, had only to console themselves with the cold consolation of having been made “April fools.” Among others to whom the change was productive of unforeseen enjoyment were several members of the Badsworth Hunt, who came up in scarlet, headed by Captain B., one of the right sort, who backed Bendigo at six to four, with a well-known sporting whip, “wot drives the London mail,” and whose mackintosh cape formed no disagreeable recommendation to the Captain, by whom it was borrowed at “shent. per shent.” interest. Having taken breath, all prepared for action, and the ring was beaten out with as much effect as so sudden and unceremonious an assemblage would permit. The men entered the ring about half-past four o’clock, Bendigo taking the lead, attended by Peter Taylor and Nick Ward; he was in high spirits, but on calling for his spiked shoes, it was “all my eye,” for they had unfortunately been sent on to Hatfield, and thus he had the disadvantage of adopting less suitable “crab-shells,” a circumstance which did not seem, however, to disturb his equanimity. Caunt then came forward, waited upon by Young Molyneaux and Gregson. On _peeling_, as we have before stated, their condition seemed admirable, and the flush of expected victory animated their “dials.” Two umpires and a referee having been chosen, all was ready, and then commenced

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――On setting to, the gigantic size of Caunt, as he stood over his antagonist, excited general surprise, and, as a natural result in such disparities, produced a feeling of sympathy towards the smaller man; but Bendigo displayed perfect self-possession, and commenced manœuvring without delay. He dodged backward and forward several times, with a view of drawing his man, having his right ready for a fly as he came in, but Caunt was not to be had at that game――when Bendigo, making a feint with his right, let go his left and caught him a tidy smack on the left ogle. Caunt instantly closed, and a struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the “big one” was sufficiently apparent, and Bendigo, finding he had no chance at this work, went down.

2.――Caunt was now on his mettle, and on coming to the scratch went straight in to his work, hitting out left and right; Bendigo got away, but napped a nasty one or two. Steadying himself he caught Caunt a crack on the side of his head with his left. Caunt did not choose to stand these pops, but rushing after his shifty antagonist, caught him in his arms, and threw him after a short struggle.

3.――Both men came up steady, with no great harm done. Bendigo again pursued the dodging system, and, after a little in-and-out work he succeeded in planting his left on Caunt’s “’tato trap,” and drew _first blood_. Caunt felt indignant at this liberty, rushed to his man, literally lifted him up in his arms, and forcing him against the stake, gave him such a hug that, after a severe struggle, he got down, Caunt falling heavily upon him.

4.――Bendigo showed symptoms of distress from the Bruin’s hug he had received in the last round, but, keeping at a distance till he had recovered his wind, he became as lively as ever. After some time devoted to sparring, Bendigo, evidently having no desire to get within grasp of his man, let fly with his right, but did not get home. A little more time being devoted to play, Caunt let fly left and right, but his blows did not tell. Bendigo, on the get-away system, at last brought himself to a steady point, and caught Caunt a tremendous crack on the cheek, which opened “mouth the second,” and drew claret in abundance. Caunt instantly rushed to work; a severe rally followed, in which several hits, left and right, were exchanged. In the close Caunt again had it all his own way, and in the end threw Bendigo and fell on him. When both men were picked up it was seen that their nobs had been considerably damaged; Caunt bled profusely from his nose and a cut under his left eye, while the side of Bendigo’s pimple was swollen from a visitation from Caunt’s right, but their seconds soon brought them in “apple-pie order,” and they were ready when “time” was called.

5.――After some sparring, Caunt, who took a distaste to Bendigo’s system of popping and shifting, went in right and left, and at once closing, seized his man as if in a vice, holding him on the ropes till nearly strangled, amidst cries of “Shame!” After a violent struggle by Bendigo to get away, he was at last thrown; Caunt fell heavily on him.

6.――From this to the 11th round the fighting was very quick on both sides, Caunt leading off left and right, Bendigo meeting him as he came in with severe jobs, and then getting down to avoid――a shifty mode of fighting, far from agreeable to the spectator, but rendered almost indispensable from the great inequality in the size of the men. In the closes Bendigo had not a chance, but his pops at Caunt as he rushed to the charge told dreadfully on his head, which he gave to get what he expected to be a home hit on his adversary, but in which he was nearly every time disappointed.

12.――Both as fresh and ready as ever――Bendigo, from his generalship the favourite; still Caunt was bold as a lion. Bendigo now changed his system, and finding he often missed the “head-rails” of his opponent, he commenced peppering right and left at the body, the whacks sounding like the music of a big drum. Cries of “Go in, Bendigo!” at length induced him to get closer to his man, and he popped in a stinger with his left under the right eye. Caunt instantly closed, and a violent struggle for the fall succeeded, when both fell.

13.――Bendigo led off well with his left; but Caunt was for close work, and rushing to his man, hit right and left, and grappled, when, catching Bendigo in his arms, he carried him to the ropes, and there held him with such force as almost to deprive him of the power of motion. The spectators, disgusted at this mode of fighting, cried out “Shame!” and exclaimed, “Thou big ugly twoad, dost thou call that foighting? whoy, the little ’un would lick thee and two or three more such if thee’d foight.” Caunt was not, however, disposed to listen to these hints, and stuck to his man like wax, till at last fears were entertained that Bendigo would be strangled, and a cry of “Cut the ropes!” burst from all directions. This suggestion was adopted, and the ropes were instantly cut in two places, when down went both, Caunt uppermost. The mob then rushed to the stakes, and the most dreadful confusion followed――umpire and referee and all forced into a dense mass. Still the interior of the ring was preserved, and cleared, and an attempt was made to repair the ropes.

From the 14th to the 38th round the greatest confusion prevailed. Bendigo persevered in his getting-down system after he received the charge of Caunt, and popped him in return; he had had enough of Caunt’s embraces, and studiously avoided them.

During this portion of the battle a magistrate made his appearance, if possible to put an end to hostilities, but he was “baying the moon,” and he was forced to retire, no doubt feeling that amidst such a scene the dignity of his office would not be properly vindicated. About the 50th round a wrangle arose from an allegation that Bendigo had kicked Caunt as he lay on the ground. Caunt claimed the fight. An appeal was made to the referee, who declared he saw nothing that was avoidable, and the fight proceeded up to the 75th round, during all which time the crush was overwhelming. Bendigo’s hitting was terrific, but still Caunt was game to the backbone, and although heavily punished, fought with him, and when he caught him gave him the advantage of his “Cornish hug.” Both men were alternately distressed, but the powerful hitting of Bendigo made him a decided favourite; in fact, he showed but little appearance of injury, although he had received some heavy body hits, and was somewhat exhausted by Caunt’s hugging and hanging upon him; still he rallied, and was well on his legs.

In the last round, on “time” being called, both men came ready to the scratch; when Caunt prepared for his rush, Bendigo slipped back, and fell on his nether end, “without a blow.” This all his friends ascribed to a slip, but Molyneaux, the second of Caunt, cried “Foul!” and claimed the battle, evidently anxious to save his man from the “fire.” An appeal was immediately made to the referee, who seemed to be a stranger to the laws of the Ring; and on being enlightened as to the fact of “going down without a blow” being deemed “foul,” he decided that Bendigo had so gone down, on which Molyneaux instantaneously threw up his hat and claimed the battle.

An indescribable row followed, the friends of Bendigo declaring he had gone down from accident, owing to his substitute shoes being without spikes. Bendigo was indignant, and ready to fight, but it was all U.P. Wharton would not throw a chance away, and took his man out of the ring, while Bendigo seized the colours, and in turn claimed a win.

The scene that followed beggars description. Caunt, who was conveyed to his carriage, was brought out to renew the fight; but this he declined, and being placed on a horse, he was pulled off, and but for the protection of his friends would have been roughly handled. He had to walk to Selby, whence he was conveyed back to the “Hawke Arms,” where his wounds were dressed and every attention paid him. He was dreadfully punished, but still strong and vigorous.

The fight lasted one hour and twenty minutes.

No sooner had the astute “Morocco Prince” snatched his verdict, and got his man away, as he was entitled to do, than we discovered, on reentering the ring――from which we had been glad to retire during the disgraceful disorder that followed the appeal――that the umpires had never been asked if they differed as to the “foul” at all; in fact, Bendy’s umpire declared he had been separated from the referee and shut out of the ring in the confusion, so that the issue depended upon the judgment of the referee, who, in such an uproar, added to his inexperience, had indeed a most difficult duty to fulfil. Of course, according to the then new practice, a lawyer’s letter was immediately posted to the stakeholder warning him not to part with the stakes until the matter had been thoroughly sifted, as both parties claimed them.

It must be admitted that Bendigo, in the course of this battle, exhibited extraordinary powers of punishment; his hits were terrific, as Caunt’s condition after the battle testified, his head and body being dreadfully shattered, but still, from the specimen thus afforded, we should not regard Bendigo as a fair stand-up fighter; he was shifty, and too much on the get-away-and-get-down system. With Caunt, however, it must be admitted there was every excuse for this course, for with four stone extra to cope with in weight, and six inches in height, it required no common nerve and caution to escape annihilation. Caunt, who claims the “Championship,” is anything but a well-scienced man; he hits at random, and has no idea of self-defence. His great attributes are game and strength, which he possesses in a pre-eminent degree. Throughout the fight there was not a single knock-down blow, which, when Caunt’s length and weight are considered, is the strongest evidence that the big one lacked the gift of hitting at points, or, as John Jackson expressed it, “judging time and distance accurately.” When we look back at the recorded battles of Mendoza, Jackson, Dutch Sam, Gully, and Randall, and remember the fights of Spring, Crawley, and Jem Ward, the pretensions of Caunt to the Championship must point the moral of the Ring’s decline. Pulling, hauling, squeezing, and hugging, the grand offensive manœuvres of Big Ben’s style of boxing, would have been scouted as a disgrace to all but pitmen, navvies, and provincial “roughs.”

Bendigo, after the battle, proceeded to Selby, where he remained for the night. He appeared little the worse for the encounter, so far as hitting was concerned. The only marks of punishment were a flush under the right eye, a swelling under the left ear, some marks of hits on the lower part of the right shoulder-blade, and sundry excoriations and abrasions of the cuticle, bearing full evidence of the severe squeezing and scrapings on the ropes inflicted by the Bruin-like hugs of his huge antagonist. To us Bendigo expressed his readiness to meet his giant opponent “anywhere, anyhow, on any terms――to-morrow, next week, or next month, anything to accommodate the big chucklehead”――which, as we afterwards knew, was Bendy’s uncomplimentary but characteristic epithet, not only in speaking of, but in personally addressing, his gigantic rival.

Much correspondence of the “’fending and proving” order followed this debateable conclusion. Mr. Lockwood, the referee, however, declared his adherence to his “decision that Bendigo went down without a blow,” and thereupon the stakeholder handed over the battle money to Caunt, with the observation:――“The referee’s decision must be upheld, and if in his judgment Bendigo went down (he says, ‘in fact, fell to avoid’), then, whatever might have been his chances――and it is admitted he had the best of the battle――Caunt is entitled to the stakes, and _pro tem._ to the title of ‘Champion.’” The next week Bendy was as good as his word, for articles were entered into for a third meeting, for £100 a side, to come off on the 30th of July; but when £40 a side had been deposited, a forfeit took place, under the following circumstances:――

The “Deaf ’un,” as Jem Burke was usually called, had returned from America, in the height of his popularity, and his challenges to “any man in or out of England,” especially “Mister Bendy,” proved too strong a “red herring” across the trail for the Nottingham hero to resist, so he forfeited £40 cash down, to grasp at what proved, for a time, a fleeting shadow, as the Deaf ’un, after his challenge and its acceptance, went on a Parisian tour (see the Life of BENDIGO, _ante_, p. 12); and it was not until Shrove Tuesday (Feb. 12th), 1839, that Bendigo and Burke had their “cock-shy,” at Appleby, and Bendigo thereafter received a much disputed “belt” from Jem Ward at Liverpool.

The remainder of 1838, and the whole of 1839, passed without Caunt sporting his colours in the lists. In August, 1840, we find our old friend Ned Painter, at Norwich, and honest fat Peter Crawley, in London, made the channels of the challenges of Brassey and of Caunt. Ned Painter writes thus, on the last day of July:――

“MR. EDITOR,――In answer to an observation made in last week’s paper, that ‘providing Brassey’s friends will sustain their promises,’ allow me to say that ‘corn,’ not ‘chaff,’ is the answer of Brassey to Caunt. Brassey went to Liverpool to make the match with Hampson; when he arrived there neither man nor money was to be seen. When Caunt challenged the whole world, Brassey and his friends accepted the challenge, and to meet Caunt’s wish, sent £25 to Tom Spring a week previous to the day appointed. I went myself on the very day, but Caunt and his party were invisible. If Caunt means a fight, and not a farce, he must go to Leeds or come to Norwich, and match at his own expense this time, as neither Brassey nor myself were allowed even the £2 for expenses promised. I am, Mr. Editor, for work, not mere words or wind.

“NED PAINTER. “Norwich, July 30th, 1840.”

To which Peter Crawley thus practically replied on behalf of Caunt:――

“SIR,――My having placed £25 in your hands will, I hope, remove all doubt as regards Caunt’s money being ready; and it remains with the friends of Brassey alone to appoint a day, either Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday week, through the medium of your paper, to meet at my house, to draw up articles and put down their dust; and unless this be attended to, for my part I shall consider they do not mean business. I have taken the responsibility on myself of detaining the money a little longer; that would give Brassey time to join his friends at Norwich, which, I understand, is all that prevents the match being made now.

“I am, &c., “P. CRAWLEY, “‘Queen’s Head and French Horn,’ Duke Street, West Smithfield. “August 21st, 1840.”

All difficulties were now smoothed, and a match for £100 a side was made, to be decided on the 26th October, 1840. As the deposits were made good, and the day approached, the interest in sporting circles rose to an intense height, and at the last deposit Tom Spring’s “Castle” was literally stormed by eager crowds.

As a relief from these prosaic matter-of-fact proceedings, we will here enliven our page with a few rhymes in the shape of――

“AN HEROIC EPISTLE FROM BRASSEY TO BIG CAUNT.”

To thee I send these lines, illustrious Caunt! Of courage tried, and huge as John of Gaunt, To thee my foolscap with black ink I blot, To tell the big ’un Brassey fears him not, And that in battle, should the fates allow, He means to snatch the laurels from his brow, At all his boasted pluck and prowess smile, And give him pepper in superior style.

Yes, gallant Caunt, next Tuesday will declare If you or I the Champion’s belt shall wear; And be assured, regardless of the tin, I’ll go to work, and do my best to win, Prove that in fight _one_ Briton can surpass ye, And if you ask his name, I thunder――_Brassey_!

What proof of milling prowess did you show In your two scrambling fights with Bendigo? When of your foeman’s punishment aware, You roughly squeezed him like a polar bear, Nearly extinguished in his lungs the breath, And almost hugged him in your arms to death―― Such a base system I pronounce humbugging; Don’t call it fighting, Caunt, I call it hugging, And if bold Brassey with that game you tease, The bear may soon be minus of his grease, And for a practice cowardly as foul, Receive a lesson that may make him growl. But bounce I bar――plain dealing is my plan, And in the ring I’ll meet you man to man, And do, most certainly, the best I can.

May no base beak, or trap with aspect rude, Upon a comfortable mill intrude―― A mill between not enemies, but friends, And upon which a lot of blunt depends; A mill, I trust, which, as in days of yore, Will honest fighting to the ring restore; A mill which, whosoe’er may win the same, Will show the British boxer’s genuine game, Unkind aspersions on the Fancy crush, And put accurs’d knife-practice to the blush―― A practice which, with bold and fearless face, In bloody letters stamps our land’s disgrace! But let that pass, while we, like boxers bold, Shall manly contest in the ring uphold, And settle matters, not with slaughtering knives, But well-braced muscles and a bunch of fives. What tho’ in battle with some Fancy lad An ogle should in mourning suit be clad? What tho’ profusion of straightforward knocks Should for a while confuse the knowledge box? Why, these are trifles which a cur may scare, But teach good men hard punishment to bear; And as they pass this earthly region thro’, All men will have a clumsy thump or two, And there’s no doubt ’twill lessen their complaining To meet hard knocks to get them into training; But Time, my worthy, warns me to desist, So for awhile farewell, my man of fist; Of your conceit on Tuesday I will strip ye―― On Tuesday next “I meet you at Philippi;” Till then believe me resolute and saucy, A foe without one hostile feeling―― “BRASSEY.”

Six Mile Bottom, Cambridgeshire, distinguished in former times by the contests of dons of the olden school, under the patronage of men of the highest rank in the kingdom, was named. Although inferior in stamp and action to bygone heroes, the present competitors were not less great in their own estimation, and certainly quite as great in bulk――for Caunt stood 6ft. 2in., and weighed 14st. 7lb., and Brassey, two inches shorter, weighed 12st. 1lb. (a standard which, according to the best judges, is sufficient for all useful purposes in the P. R., all beyond that being deemed surplusage). In point of age they were pretty much upon a par, and in the prime of life, Caunt having been born in March, 1815, and Brassey in the month of January in the same year.

The opinion of Bendigo as to the merits of the two men was naturally sought, and he, without hesitation, gave the “palm” to Brassey, whom he pronounced the better tactician, if not the gamer man. As provincial champions they were held in high estimation――Brassey at Leeds, Bradford, and those districts, and Caunt at Nottingham, Sheffield, and the surrounding country. In London, however, their pretensions as scientific men were viewed with little favour――and, in fact, in that respect their acquirements were but of an inferior character――as their sparring displays with the accomplished Tom Spring sufficiently demonstrated. Still, although “rough,” they were deemed “ready,” and a slashing fight was anticipated.

Brassey went into training under the auspices of Ned Painter, of Norwich, and Caunt claimed the attention of “the Infant” (Peter Crawley), by whom he was placed “at nurse” in the neighbourhood of Hatfield. More competent mentors could not have been selected; and all that judgment and good advice could effect was accomplished――for it was impossible for men to have been brought to the “post” in better condition, or with a stronger feeling of personal confidence. The articles specified that the belligerent meeting was to take place halfway between Norwich and London, but by mutual consent (although Crawley won the toss for choice) the locality we have mentioned was eventually agreed upon――thus combining a double object of attraction――the mill and the races――and being alike convenient to the training quarters of the combatants.

On Monday both men neared the point of rendezvous, Brassey being installed at the “Queen Victoria,” Newmarket, and Caunt at Littlebury, in Essex.

In the former town, too, the Commissary had lodged his _matériel_ as early as Saturday, being provided with new and substantial stakes for the purpose――a precaution which the herculean proportions of the men rendered judicious.

As on all these occasions the betting was influenced by local prejudices; and while at Leeds, Bradford, and their vicinities, the “Yorkshire tyke” (Brassey) was the favourite at five to four, in Sheffield, Nottingham, Newmarket, and London Caunt had the call at six and seven to four, and finally at two to one and five to two, at which price large sums were laid out.

With a view to prevent interruption, and to gratify the “sporting nobs” of Newmarket, it was stipulated in the articles that the men should be in the ring between eight and nine o’clock a.m.――an arrangement which proved most judicious, although it shut out a numerous class to whom early rising and long trots of an autumnal morning are not agreeable. The whisper, which was anything but soft, of the forthcoming event, soon extended far and wide; and the arrivals from distant quarters at Newmarket proved that the office had been very extensively circulated and promptly obeyed――as the unusual muster of fighting nobs on Newmarket Heath, on the Monday, including all the _élite_ of the _corps pugilistique_, sufficiently evinced. During the night the contributions from the provinces increased; all the coaches passing through the town were loaded, and the clatter of fresh arrivals in various equipages proved the interest which had been excited.

Unfortunately a fine day had been succeeded by a night of heavy rain, and the drenched appearance of the early birds, as they shook their feathers, fully sustained the established rule that there are few human amusements without alloy, or, as Sir G. Cornewall Lewis philosophically put it, “Life would be tolerable were it not for its pleasures.” Still, among the Fancy, these vicissitudes were of little moment, and were submitted to with becoming philosophy. The morning was not more propitious than the night, but there was, nevertheless, no lack of bustle in Newmarket; in fact, hundreds were seen in busy preparation for “the start,” and vehicles of every description were called into requisition, while all classes, from the Corinthian to the humble stable-boy, were full of lively anticipation. The troop of equestrians which went forth showed the excitement that prevailed, while the carriages, gigs, and carts which followed produced a cheerful commotion in the direction of the appointed fixture, which was about six miles from the town.

A hostile declaration of a reverend parson of Cheveley, on the Monday, led to an apprehension that an interruption was not unlikely. Indeed, we believe it was intended, but happily his reverence, by some _unfortunate accident_, was put on the wrong scent, and proceeded in an opposite direction, towards the borders of Suffolk, where, attended by a posse of special constables, he waited with creditable patience for the expected arrival of the “misdoers.” He watched, however, in vain; in the interim the belligerents had settled their differences elsewhere, to his infinite mortification, as well as to the imminent danger of his health, from so long and unprofitable an exposure to the warring elements. On his return to Cheveley, his forlorn aspect induced strong expressions of commiseration; but we are inclined to doubt the sincerity of those by whom they were uttered, who obviously thought the worthy divine should not have forgotten the old maxim, “Charity begins at home,” where, in all probability, he would have found abundant opportunity for the exercise of his Christian virtues without wasting them idly on the “desert air.”

An agreement having been made that both men should be in the ring precisely at eight o’clock, by that hour the lists were completed, and were quickly surrounded by the coming throng, who formed a circle of ample dimensions round the all-important arena, which every moment increased in density, and included in its motley features several foreigners of distinction; a large contribution from the University of Cambridge (who came in style in drags and fours, all “lighted up” in such profusion that many were disposed to think, from the halo of smoke which fumed from their fragrant havannahs, an engine had broken loose from some distant railroad); a vast concourse of the Turf aristocracy, and not a few of the right sort, who had posted from London to participate in the amusements of the day. The remainder, to the extent of 2,000 or 3,000, was of that mingled character which it would be difficult to particularise, many of them being so disguised in their north-westers and storm-defying protectors as to give them the advantage of perfect _incognito_, combined with personal protection. We did hear of a stray magistrate or two being present, yet for this we cannot vouch; but we must remark, if the fact were so, it showed their good sense. This we do know, that one or two proved by their conduct “none are so blind as those who will not see;” and upon the appearance of the parson of Cheveley at the magisterial divan in Newmarket on the same day, after the fight, to deplore the hoax of which he had been made the victim, his vicissitudes produced a good deal of fun, and not a little commendation of the ingenious concocter of the “secret despatch” to which he had fallen so simple a victim.

Brassey was first on the ground; and as the rain fell in torrents impatience was manifested for the arrival of Caunt. Unhappily, however, he did not reach the cheerless scene till within five minutes of nine. Come he did, however, at last, and the thrill of pleasure soon dissipated the melancholy forebodings of disappointment; for it was feared that Brassey would have been allowed to walk over the course and claim forfeit. An inner circle of the privileged was soon formed by those who chose to “qualify” by taking out “certificates” at 5s. each from the Commissary. For the accommodation of these a quantity of straw had been spread a few yards from the ring, but such was its saturated state, from the continued rain, that it afforded little protection, and carriage seats and gig cushions were in general request, often with little regard to the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_. Never was the modern invention of waterproof wrappers more prized; and when we witnessed the aristocratic groups thus recklessly reposing on the slimy soil we could not withhold the expression of our delight at finding the spirit of olden times still unsubdued, notwithstanding the inroads of pantilers and teetotallers. We recognised among the mass many old soldiers, who good-humouredly remarked it was but a memento of the past, and reminded their young friends the time might not be far distant when even such inconvenience would be a luxury compared with what they would have to endure in maintaining the fear-nought reputation of John Bull on the “tented field.” Beyond the privileged stood rows of perpendicular spectators, and behind them again were the carriages and other vehicles, covered with not less anxious gazers.

At last, soon after nine o’clock, the heroes of the day made their appearance; Caunt under the care of Peter Crawley, and attended by Dick Curtis and a Liverpool friend as bottle-holder and second; Brassey escorted by Ned Painter, and officially accompanied by Jem Hall and Johnny Broome. On entering the lists Caunt, who wore a large Welsh wig, approached Brassey, and offered to lay him a private bet on the issue of the contest; but Brassey regarded this as a piece of bounce, and turned from him. The umpires and referee having been chosen, the yellowmen――for both sported the same colours――were tied to the stake, and all prepared for action. On stripping, the gigantic frame of Caunt struck the uninitiated with surprise. His superior height and weight left no room for nice calculations, and the fate of his adversary was already foretold; his broad back and muscular developments had a most formidable aspect, while his long arms and proportionate supporters showed him as a giant among _pigmies_, in which light Dick Curtis, and some of his little friends who stood beside him, could alone be regarded. There was, however, something ungainly in his huge frame, and more of awkwardness than symmetry in his configuration. Brassey, although less, was still “a man for a’ that,” and if not in juxtaposition with such a Goliath would have been regarded as an excellent specimen of the Grenadier fraternity. His figure was muscular and his limbs well knit, exhibiting appearances of strength and vigour not to be despised, while his mug displayed fearless determination. The preliminaries having been adjusted, at twenty-five minutes after nine “business” commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――No sooner had the seconds retired to their corners, on leaving the men at the scratch, than Caunt rushed to his man and threw out his arms, left and right, with the quickness and vigour of a just-started windmill; his kind intentions were, however, evaded, and he missed his blows, especially a terrific upper-cut with his right, which, had it reached its destination, would have “told a tale.” Brassey in like manner was wild, and missed his blows, but finding Caunt closing upon him, he hit up with his right, and on closing instantly went down.

2.――Caunt again hit out left and right, but without precision. He made his right slightly on Brassey’s nob, when the latter rattled in left and right, like Caunt, missing, and again went down. It was pretty obvious that Brassey was fearful of the Russian hug of _ursa major_, and had made up his mind to the falling system, which, however obnoxious to the spectators, was evidently his only safe game.

3.――“Steady,” cried Dick, “and hit straight.” Caunt led off right and left, and succeeded in planting his left on Brassey’s forehead, but he had it in return. Brassey got to him and delivered a tremendous left-hander on his cheek, and was as quick with his right on his nozzle; the claret flew in abundance, and the big ’un was posed. He hit out wild, left and right, and missed, while Brassey got down. (Loud cheers for Brassey. The spectators were electrified by the effect of these blows. A gaping wound ornamented Caunt’s right cheek, and his nose emitted the purple fluid, which Dick quickly mopped up with his sponge.) This decided the first event――_first blood_ for Brassey. (The Cauntites looking queer.)

4.――Caunt came up by no means improved in beauty. He led on as before, wild left and right; but his deliveries wanted precision. Brassey fought with him, but, like sticks in an Irish row, their arms were the only receivers, and little mischief was done. Brassey got down grinning.

5.――Caunt planted his left on Brassey’s eye, but missed his right, which, had it reached its destination, would have been a poser. It went over Brassey’s shoulder. Brassey, finding he could not well stand the overwhelming rush of his antagonist, got down.

6.――Brassey popped in his left, and escaping the visitation of Caunt’s left and right, pursued his tumbling system, while Caunt laughed, and pointed at him with contempt.

7.――Caunt, more successful, caught Brassey left and right on the nob, when Brassey went down, but Caunt’s blows did not seem to tell.

8.――Caunt delivered his left and right, but so wildly as to be ineffective, and Brassey went down, throwing up his legs and knees in the rebound.

9.――Caunt, as usual, opened the ball with a wild rush right and left, catching Brassey on the forehead with his right. Brassey hit left and right, but was stopped, and went down, Caunt with difficulty escaping treading on him as he stepped over him.

10, 11, 12.――All of the same character, Caunt doing no great execution, and Brassey invariably getting down.

13.――Caunt hit out of distance with his right, when Brassey caught him on the smeller with his left, again drawing his cork. Caunt, stung, hit out heavily with his right, and caught Brassey on the back of the ear. Brassey went down.

14.――Caunt, the first to fight, planted his right on Brassey’s left eye; Brassey fell. (First knock-down blow claimed, but doubtful, as the ground became inconveniently slippery.)

15.――Caunt missed one of his tremendous right-hand lunges, and Brassey went down.

16.――Caunt dropped heavily with his right on Brassey’s ribs, who fought wildly, but again caught Caunt with the left on his damaged cheek; more blood, and Brassey down.

17.――Brassey in with his right on Caunt’s ogle, and went down.

18.――Caunt, in his wild rush, hit Brassey left and right on the pimple, and on his going down, as he stepped over him, scraped his forehead with his shoe, peeling off a trifle of the bark.

19.――Caunt, more steady, planted his left on Brassey’s dexter peeper, and hit him clean down with his right. (_First knock-down blow_ unequivocally declared for Caunt.)

20.――Caunt delivered his left heavily on Brassey’s snout, and his right on the side of his head. Brassey made play, but missed, and went down. On being lifted on his second’s knee, he bled from mouth and nose.

[The friends of Caunt, who had been silent up to this, regarding the issue of the battle anything but certain, now again opened their potato traps, and offered 2 to 1, which was taken.]

21.――Caunt delivered another heavy body blow with his right, which made a sounding echo. Brassey rushed to a close, and clung with his legs around Caunt’s thighs. Caunt tried to hold him up with his left while he hit with his right, but he found this impossible, and flung him down with contempt. It was here clear that if once Brassey suffered himself to be grasped in a punishable position by his opponent it would be all over.

22, 23, 24, and 25 were all pretty much in the same style――the hitting wild and ineffective, Brassey either clinging to his man or throwing himself down.

26.――Another heavy blow on the ribs from Caunt’s right told smartly on Brassey’s corporation. Brassey attempted to close, but Caunt threw him heavily with his head on the ground.

27, 28, 29.――Not much done, Brassey going down every round, after slight and wild exchanges.

30.――Caunt hit Brassey down with one of his swinging right-handed hits on the side of his head, which made his left eye twinkle again. (3 to 1 offered and taken on Caunt.)

In the next three rounds there were some heavy exchanges left and right, but Brassey pursued his falling tactics.

34.――Tremendous counter-hitting with the right, and equally heavy exchanges with the left. Both down on their knees, from the stunning severity of the deliveries. (Caunt’s beauty improving. A splendid likeness of the “Saracen’s Head” without his wig.)

35.――Again did Caunt nail his man on the nose with his left, and the claret came forth freely.

From this to the 53rd round there were some heavy exchanges left and right. To all appearance, the punishment was most severe on Caunt’s face, whose left cheek was cut, as well as his right, but the heavy deliveries on the left side of Brassey’s head, as well as his ribs, had evidently weakened him, although he still came up as game as a pebble. In his frequent falls, Caunt occasionally could not avoid falling on him, and his weight was no trifling addition to his other punishment. It is but just to state, however, that Caunt fought in a fair and manly style, and avoided everything like unfair advantage.

In the 55th round the ground became so muddy that the men, from fighting in the centre of the ring, could scarcely keep their legs, and Brassey went down without a blow. This was claimed, but rejected by the referee, who cautioned him, however, against giving such another chance away.

56.――Caunt planted his left heavily on Brassey’s winker, but Brassey, in return, hit him on the jaw with his right, and making up his mind for further mischief, repeated the blow with terrific effect a little below the same spot, Caunt countering at the same moment, and with the same hand. The collision was dreadful――both fell in opposite directions――Caunt as if shot by a twenty-four pounder, end Brassey all abroad.

Here was a decided change; Caunt was evidently unconscious, and was with difficulty held on his second’s knee. His head rolled like a turtle in convulsions. Curtis, however, steadied his tremulous pimple, administered a slight dash of water, and on “time” being called he was enabled to go to the scratch, but with such groggy indications that we doubt whether he knew if he was on his head or his heels.

57.――Brassey now endeavoured to improve his advantage, but instead of steadily waiting to give his man the _coup de grace_, he rushed in, and bored Caunt through the ropes, and he fell on his back, while the force of Brassey’s fall on him was stayed by his own chin being caught by the upper rope, on which he hung for a moment.

58.――Caunt recovered a little, but Brassey again rushed in, hitting left and right, and in the struggle both down, Brassey uppermost.

59.――Caunt steadied himself, and went in to fight. Some heavy exchanges followed, and Brassey went down, but Caunt was far from firm on his pins. It was now seen that Caunt’s right hand, from its repeated visits to Brassey’s head and ribs, was much swollen; his left, too, showed the effects of repeated contact with the physog. of his antagonist. This, in the following rounds, led to a good deal of contention, on the ground that Caunt had unfair substances in his hand; but he showed it was only paper, and threw it away, although entitled to the use of any soft material to steady his grasp.

The rounds which followed, to the 100th, offered but little variety; both men became gradually exhausted, and it required all the care and encouragement of their partisans to rouse them to action. Each was assured that victory smiled upon him, and that it only required another effort to make all safe. Brassey came up manfully round after round; but although he occasionally stopped and hit, the pops of his opponent, who now and then saved him the trouble of falling by hitting him down, told with increasing effect. Caunt repeatedly tried to hold him in the closes, with the view of fibbing; but Brassey was too leary, and got down without this additional proof of kind intention. In some of his tumbles, however, Caunt fell heavily on him, and once more, in trying to evade him, scraped his foot on his nose, a casualty almost unavoidable from his sudden prostrations.

The weakness of Brassey gradually increased, while Caunt evidently got stronger on his legs; and although his right hand was gone, he continued to hit with it. He was entreated to use his left, which he did three times in succession in one round on Brassey’s muzzle, till he dropped him. Such was the prejudice in favour of Brassey, however, from the vigour with which he occasionally rallied, that it was still hoped he might make a turn in his favour, and if encouraging shouts would have effected that object, he was not without stentorian friends. Caunt, too, had his anxious attendants; and all that cheering could do to rouse his spirits was heartily afforded him.

From the 90th to the 100th round poor Brassey came up weak on his legs, and either fell or was hit down, but to the last made a manly struggle against superior strength and weight. In the 100th round Broome said he should fight no more, and Crawley stepped into the ring to claim the battle; he was, however, called out, and Brassey came up once more, but he was incapable of prolonged exertion, and being hit down with a right-handed smack on the head, he reluctantly submitted to the calls of his friends to give in, and all was over. Caunt was proclaimed the conqueror, after fighting _one hundred and one rounds_, in _one hour and thirty minutes_.

REMARKS.――We have seldom recorded a fight in which we experienced more difficulty to render the details interesting. It will be seen that in ninety minutes one hundred rounds were fought, deducting the half-minute time, often prolonged to nearly a minute by mutual delay in coming to the “scratch” when “time” was called; therefore, the average time occupied by each round did not much exceed twenty seconds. There was no attempt at stopping (except in a few instances by Brassey), nor any of those scientific manœuvres which give interest to such an exhibition. Caunt was invariably the first to fight, but led off with nothing like precision, repeatedly missing his blows and upper cuts, many of which, had they told, might have been conclusive. Brassey seemed to be fully aware of this mode of assault, and generally waited till he got within Caunt’s guard, and thus succeeded in administering heavy punishment. This point once gained he lost no time in getting down, feeling quite confident that in close contact he would not have had a chance. This, although far from a popular mode of contest, is certainly excusable considering the inequality of the men in height and weight, and the only surprise is that the lesser man should have endured so much before he cried “enough.” The repeated visitations to his ribs from Caunt’s right, or “sledge-hammer,” were searching in the extreme, and led to the belief that three of his ribs had been broken, although subsequent examination proved that he was only labouring under the effects of severe contusions and inward bruises. In like manner the right-handed deliveries behind his left ear, on the ear itself, and on the left eye and jaw, as well as the left-handed jobs, were so far from _jocular_ that we were not surprised the _vis comica_ had ceased to be displayed on his “dial,” and when to these visitations are added his repeated falls, with the weight of Caunt occasionally superadded to his own, and this in such rapid succession, the only surprise is he should have held out so long. Caunt in his _modus operandi_ evinced a sad ignorance of the art. Like the yokels of old before the principles of mechanism were discovered, he has to learn the proper application of his strength, of which, did he possess the requisite knowledge, he might bid defiance not only to such a man as Brassey, but even to the caperings of an avalanche. He is not, like most men of his size, slow――on the contrary, he is too quick; and for the want of judicious deliberation, like a runaway steam-engine without a controlling engineer, he over-shoots his mark. This, if it be possible, he ought to correct, and while he husbands his strength, where he does apply it, he should measure not only his distance but the tactics of his opponent. Had he waited for his man, instead of leading off with a rush, he must have brought Brassey down every round, for nothing could resist the force of his heavy metal if properly applied. Strange as it may appear, on examining both men on Wednesday morning, the punishment on the part of Caunt was greater than that of Brassey, and viewing both frontispieces and saying, “Look on this picture, and on this,” our opinion would have been, “Caunt has received the greater and more effective punishment.” Added to this, his hands, and especially the right, were essentially _hors de combat_, while Brassey’s were uninjured. Upon the whole, therefore, although Caunt is the victor, and entitled to praise, Brassey, as the vanquished, deserves almost an equal degree of credit, if not of profit. That this is the feeling of others was demonstrated at Newmarket after the battle, for there was not only £30 collected for him by voluntary contributions, but a promise of still more liberal consideration was held out, and in the end fulfilled.

On the Monday following, at Peter Crawley’s, “Duke’s Head,” Smithfield, the battle money was paid over to Caunt, in the presence of an overflowing muster of the patrons of British boxing. Brassey was present, and confessed himself fairly conquered. A subscription was made to console him for his honourable defeat, and £40 presented to him as a reward for his valiant conduct, some merriment being excited by one of the donations being announced as from “the parson of Cheveley.”

Caunt, in a short speech, stated that he once again claimed the “Championship of England,” and was ready to make, then and there, a match for £100 a side with any man, to fight within fifty miles of London. Nick Ward, he added, had challenged him, and “he hoped he had pluck enough to prove that his challenge was not mere bounce.”

Jem Ward lost no time in responding to Caunt’s remarks on his brother Nick, as follows:――

“MR. EDITOR,――The friends of Nick Ward have consulted, and consider (as his efforts in the Ring have been but few, and as you, whose judgment, from long experience, is entitled to great weight, have expressed an opinion that Nick Ward would never be a first-rate man) that Caunt, who lays claim to the Championship, should, as a set-off to his superiority of weight and position, give odds to make a match. Nick Ward, without bouncing, is willing to fight Caunt if he will deposit £150 to Ward’s £100.

“JAMES WARD. “Star Hotel, Williamson Square, Liverpool. “November 12th, 1840.”

The preliminaries were arranged without delay, and at Caunt’s benefit, at the Bloomsbury Assembly Rooms, in the following week, a deposit was made, and the next week articles drawn for the men to fight for £100 a side, within two months, not more than sixty miles from London.

On February 2nd, 1841, in the seventh round and twelfth minute of the fight, Caunt lost this battle by delivering a foul blow under irritation of feeling at the shifty tactics of his opponent. (See Life of NICK WARD, _post_.)

Of course the matter could not rest thus――that is, if, as many surmised would not be the case, “brother Nick” could muster courage to face once again his gigantic opponent.

In pursuance of appointment, Caunt and his friends met Nick Ward and Co. at Young Dutch Sam’s, the “Black Lion,” Vinegar Yard, Brydges Street, on Thursday, the 18th of February, 1841, to draw up articles, which set forth that――

“The said Benjamin Caunt agrees to fight the said Nick Ward a fair stand-up fight, in a four-and-twenty-foot roped ring, half-minute time, according to the New Rules, for one hundred pounds a side, half-way between London and Liverpool; the place to be decided by toss at the last deposit; neither place to exceed twenty miles from the direct line of road, unless mutually agreed upon to the contrary. The fight to take place on Tuesday, the 11th of May. In pursuance of this agreement twenty pounds a side are now deposited. A second deposit of ten pounds a side to be made on Thursday, the 25th inst., at Mr. Swain’s, the ‘Greyhound,’ Woodside, Hatfield. A third deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Black Lion,’ Vinegar Yard, on Thursday, the 4th of March. A fourth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Bell,’ Hatfield, on Thursday, the 11th of March. A fifth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Black Lion’ aforesaid, on Thursday, the 18th of March. A sixth deposit of ten pounds a side at the ‘Cherry Tree,’ Kingsland Road, on Thursday, the 25th of March. A seventh deposit of ten pounds a side at Jem Ward’s, Williamson Square, Liverpool, on Thursday, the 1st of April. An eighth deposit of ten pounds a side at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, on Thursday, the 8th of April; and the ninth and last deposit of ten pounds a side at Young Dutch Sam’s, the ‘Black Lion,’ Vinegar Yard, on Thursday, the 22nd of April. The said deposits to be made between the hours of eight and ten o’clock, or the party failing to forfeit the money down. The men to be in the ring between twelve and one o’clock, or at an early hour if mutually agreed upon, or the money down to be forfeited by the party absent. Two umpires and a referee to be chosen on the ground; the decision of the latter, in the event of dispute, to be conclusive. In case of magisterial interference the stakeholder to name the next time and place of meeting, unless a referee shall have been chosen, to whom that duty shall be assigned. The fight to come off on the same day if possible; but the money not to be given up till fairly won or lost by a fight. The ropes and stakes to be paid for by the men, share and share alike. Neither man to use resin or other powder to his hands during the combat. The party winning the toss for choice of place to name the ground seven days before fighting to the backers of the party losing the toss.”

The parties, after signing, shook hands with great good humour, and joined in drinking the general toast, “May the best man win!” Caunt expressed much mortification at the assertion which he said had been made that the cause of his loss of the late fight was attributable to design rather than accident. He protested that he acted from the ungovernable impulse of the moment, irritated by Ward’s going down at the moment he was within his reach. He said, further, that he would profit by his experience, and be specially careful to avoid a similar “accident.” The backers of Ward offered to take six to four on the issue; but odds were refused.

The deposits duly made, Young Dutch Sam, who acted on Nick Ward’s behalf, won the toss for choice of ground, and named Stratford-on-Avon for the place of meeting. The selection of Shakespeare’s birthplace proved judicious, as the proceedings from first to last passed off without interruption. We may perhaps note that one inducement of Ward to the choice of Stratford-on-Avon might be that there, in July, 1831, his brother Jem closed his brilliant career by defeating Simon Byrne at Willycuts, three miles from the town.

Caunt reached Stratford on Monday afternoon, in company of Tom Spring, and made the “Red Horse” his resting-place. Nick Ward, accompanied by his brother, put up at the “White Lion.” Every inn in the place was crammed to overflowing, and many who were unable to procure beds at any price returned to Warwick or Leamington, and some even to Coventry, necessitating a return journey the next morning. We must, in justice to the many followers of the four-square Ring, state that the utmost order and regularity prevailed in the town throughout the evening, and that hilarity, joviality, and good temper prevailed among the partisans of both men, a fact which we would commend to electors and political factions.

All were astir early, and there was a strong muster of Corinthians of the first water――indeed, the “upper crust” was unusually well represented by numerous hunting men from the “shires,” who, by liberal expenditure, gave the good, hospitable fellow-townsmen of the immortal Will every reason to be grateful for the selection which had been made; and they, on their part, showed their sense of the obligation conferred by their civility and the moderation of their charges.

The scene of action was in a field at Long Marsden, on a farm belonging to a Mr. Pratt; and thither the Commissary proceeded to make his arrangements, and thither also the immense cavalcade of equestrians and charioteers, as well as innumerable groups of pedestrians, took their way in due time. On the last occasion the unlucky “footpads” were thrown out entirely, but on this they had undoubtedly the best of it, for they, by means of short cuts and familiar paths, shortened their pleasant journey, while those who were on four legs――or worse, on wheels――were compelled to scramble and jolt over roads of the most villainous description, in which the most imminent risks of spills or a break-down were only avoided by care and good luck. In fact, many of those who endured the miseries of both roads declared, that the sixteen miles between the Andover road and Crookham Common, with all its horrors, was surpassed by the shorter journey from Stratford to Long Marsden.

The spot was admirably selected, and the ropes and stakes pitched upon a piece of sound, elastic turf that delighted the _cognoscenti_. The immense multitude, as they arrived, arranged themselves in a most orderly, methodical manner. The day was beautiful, the country around green, fresh, and odoriferous with the blossoms of the may. Everything was conducted in a style to ensure general satisfaction.

Caunt made his appearance first, with an oddly assorted pair of seconds as ever handled a champion in the P.R. They were old Ben Butler, his uncle, well known in after times in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses;” a man well stricken in years, and a cross-grained old curmudgeon to boot. With him appeared Atkinson, of Nottingham, a 9½ stone man, whose disparity of size with the man he was supposed to pick up excited the risibility of old ring-goers. Benjamin himself, however, seemed particularly well satisfied, and remarked laughingly, in reply to a jocose observation of a bystander, “Never thee mind――_I’m_ not goin’ to tummle down; he’s big enow for me!” Had the fight which ensued been of the desperate character of Ben’s late encounter with Brassey, the ill-assorted pair could about as much have carried Colossus Caunt to his corner as they could have carried the Achilles in Hyde Park. Nick had with him, as on the former occasion, Harry Holt and Dick Curtis, certainly the two ablest counsellors on the Midland, Northern, or any other Circuit. Tom Spring, who was in friendly attendance upon Caunt, addressed an emphatic warning to the big one to keep his temper, cautioning him not to play into the hands of his opponent by allowing himself to be irritated by his shifty dodges. Caunt listened with a grim, self-satisfied smile, and nodded his head, as much as to say he was not going to be caught this time. Each man, in reply to a question, declared he “never felt better in his life,” and their looks justified the assertion. Caunt was a little “finer drawn” than at their previous meeting, and weighed, when stripped, exactly 14st. 6lb. He never went to scale so light before――indeed, it was not an excessive weight for a big-boned man measuring 6 feet 2½ inches. He had, however, a narrow escape in his training, for, on the Sunday week previous, in his walking exercise, he trod on a stone, and turned his foot aside with such suddenness as to strain the muscles of his leg and ankle so severely that he was unable to walk for several days, exciting the serious apprehensions of his friends; with rest and constant surgical care, however, he overcame the mischief, and was as well as ever. Ward looked to us a trifle too fleshy. He weighed 13st. 6lb., 10lb. more than when he fought in February.

Some time previously a subscription had been raised to produce a “Champion’s Belt,” to be given to the victor on this occasion, and to be hereafter transferable, should he retire from the Ring or be beaten by a more successful candidate for fistic honours. This belt, under the superintendence of a committee, was completed, and now for the first time was held forth as an additional incitement to bravery and good conduct. Previous to the commencement of the battle, Cicero Holt, the well-known orator of the Ring, and second of Nick Ward, approached the scratch, and silence being called, held up the belt, pronouncing that in addition to the stakes this trophy had been prepared by a number of liberal gentlemen, as a spur to the honest and manly feeling which it was desirable should ever pervade the minds of men who sought distinction in the Prize Ring. “Honour and fair play,” it was their opinion, should be the motto of English boxers, and it would be their proud gratification to see this belt girded round the loins of him, whoever he might be, who entitled himself in spirit and principle to the terms of that motto. They were influenced by neither favour nor affection, nor by prejudice of any kind; all they desired was that the best man might win, wear this trophy, and retain it so long as he was enabled to maintain the high and distinguished title of Champion of England. On resigning, or being stripped of the laurels of Championship, it would then be his duty to transfer this proud badge to his more fortunate successor, and thus a prize would be established which it would ever be the pride of gallant Englishmen to possess, and its brightness, he trusted, would never be tarnished by an act of dishonour. It was to be finally presented, he said, when complete, at a dinner to be given at Jem Burn’s, where the subscription originated, on Monday, the 31st instant.

The belt was then exhibited to the gaze of the curious; it is composed of purple velvet, and lined with leather; in the centre are a pair of clasped hands surrounded by a wreath of the Rose, the Thistle, and the Shamrock, entwined in embossed silver; on each side of this are three shields of bright silver, at present without inscription, but on these are to be engraven the names of all the Champions of England which the records of the Fancy preserve, to conclude with the name of the conqueror on the present occasion. The clasps in front are formed of two hands encased in sparring-gloves. It is due to state that this belt is altogether very beautifully executed, and highly creditable to the motives and good feeling to which its origin is attributable. Its inspection afforded general pleasure, and the oration of “Cicero” was received with loud cheers. Caunt, on taking it in his hand, significantly said to Nick Ward, “This is mine, Nick,” to which Ward replied, “I hope the best man may win it and wear it.”

These preliminaries, so novel in the P.R., having been concluded, the colours of the men were entwined on the stake, and umpires and a referee having been chosen, no time was lost in preparing for action.

The betting at first was 5 to 4 on Ward, though we never could understand the quotation, and did not see any money posted at the odds. At twenty minutes to one all was ready, and the champions toed the scratch for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.――The men faced each other with an expression of good humour on their countenances that could hardly be expected by those who knew how they had expressed themselves at former meetings. Caunt’s rough lineaments bore a grin of satisfaction, that seemed to say he had his wishes gratified. Ward, though he also smiled, it was a vanishing smile, and he looked eagerly and anxiously at his antagonist. Ward’s attitude was scientific and well guarded, his left ready for a lightning-shot, as he poised himself on his left toe, with his right somewhat across, to parry the possible counterhit. Caunt stood erect, as if to make the most of his towering height, but a trifle backward. Ward moved about a little, as if measuring his distance, and then let go his left. It was not a determined hit, and did not get home. Caunt dashed out his left in return, but Nick stopped it prettily. However, as he meant it for a counter, his friends were pleased at his quickness, and cheered the attempt, especially as he almost instantly followed it with a lunge from the right, which just reached Ward’s neck. The big one now bored in for a close, meaning mischief. Ward bobbed his head aside, delivered a slight job, and was down on his knees. It was clear that Nick meant to fight in the evasive style of their former encounter, but it was also clear from Caunt’s coolness that he was likely to have more trouble over this day’s business, and we heard no more about odds upon Ward.

2.――The men faced each other as before, no harm as yet having been done on either side. Caunt now began manœuvring in rather an ungainly manner; but as some of his movements suggested a plunge in, Nick was resolved to be first, and let go his left on Caunt’s mouth, who heeded not the blow, but dashed out left and right. The blows were wild, but his right reached Ward’s cheek; and Caunt was pulling himself together for heavy punching, when once more Ward slipped his foot, and was on both knees. Caunt threw up both hands, and gave a sort of guttural “Hur, hur!” as he looked at the cunning face of his opponent, then walked to his own corner. The big one’s friends were delighted at this proof of caution, and cheered lustily.

3.――Ward came up with a keen and anxious look at his opponent. Ben nodded, and flourished his long arms like the sails of a windmill. He seemed ready to let Ward lead off and then take his chance of going in for the return. Ward drew back at arm’s length, and Caunt hit short more than once, but Nick did not get near enough for an effective return. Caunt, with a grim smile, almost rolled in, sending out left and right as he came. His right just reached Ward’s head, who hit up sharply and then slipped down, as though from his own blow. It was a very questionable get-down, but there was no appeal.

4.――Nick seemed to feel that he was by no means taking the lead, and he was told that unless he hit, and kept Caunt employed in defending himself, he would bore in on him continually. The advice was doubtless sound, but it wanted more pluck than Nick possessed to put it in practice. Nick hit out with his left, but not near enough, and Caunt stopped him, amid some cheering; Caunt paused, as if expecting Ward to come closer, but he did not, so he let fly, and in a sort of ding-dong rally gave Ward a tidy smack on the nose; Nick jobbed him heavily three or four times, then dropped so close to Caunt that they both rolled over, the big one falling heavily on Nick. On rising blood was seen oozing from Ward’s nose, and the first event was awarded to Caunt, amidst the cheers of his friends, and to the astonishment of Ward’s backers.

5.――The faces of both men were flushed from the blows received, and Caunt, who was anxious to be at work, went in at once, left and right, again catching Ward upon the nose, and increasing the appearance of claret. Ward made no return, he was too anxious to get away, and on Caunt grappling him, he got quickly down, Caunt stumbling forward and falling over him.

6.――The rounds were too short and hurried to admit of much in the way of description. Caunt, still eager to be at work, tried his left, but was stopped. Counter-hits with the left followed, but though Nick was a fine counter-hitter, he never exhibited any great relish for that mode of fighting――the most telling in its effects and most exciting to witness of all practised in the P. R. Caunt lashed out with his left, and on Nick’s cleverly avoiding the smash, rushed to in-fighting. Nick, however, pursued his plan of getting down, but Caunt came heavily upon him. Although up to the present time Caunt had not done much execution, yet he was certainly getting the best of the fight, and he maintained his improvement in his style of hitting, substituting straight hits from the shoulder for the overhanded chops which had formerly marked his attempts.

7.――Ward tried to regain the lead――if he had ever had it――and let fly with his left, but he had not sufficient courage to go close to his man, and once again the blow fell short. He stopped Caunt’s attempt at a return with his left, which came pretty heavy and quickly, and on the latter’s rushing in for close work Nick dropped on his knees. There was no blow struck in this round, and Caunt, who was about to deliver, wisely restrained his hand, and with his deep, short laugh, shook his finger menacingly at Ward as he knelt, and walked away.

8.――Up to this period no material damage had been done on either side, few of the hits having more than a skin-deep effect. Ward still preserved his elegant attitude, and tried his left, but did not get home, and Caunt hit short at the body with his right. Nick now steadied himself for mischief, and, after a short pause, threw his left with the quickness of lightning, and caught Caunt over the right eyebrow, on which it left a gaping wound, from which a copious crimson stream flowed over the undamaged optic and down his cheek. Caunt hit out wildly, left and right; Ward, in retreating, fell on his knees, and Caunt tumbled over him.

9.――Atkinson was seen to be busily engaged in stopping the flow of claret from Caunt’s eyebrow when “Time!” was called. At the sound Caunt jumped up vigorously, and continued the contest with a figurehead anything but improved by the crimson stain which marked its right side. Nick smiled at his handiwork, waited for his man, and as Caunt came plunging in, met him with a heavy hit from the left on the cheek, opening an ancient wound originally inflicted by Brassey, and starting a fresh tap of claret. Caunt was stung by the hits, and dashed in left and right; but Ward adhered to his dropping tactics, and again fell on his knees, amidst strong expressions of disapprobation.

10.――Ward again tried his left, but was unsuccessful; Caunt came in, and after a couple of slight exchanges, left and right, Nick got down.

11.――Caunt came up nothing daunted, stopped an attempt with Ward’s left, and made a terrific rush, which if as clumsy as the elephant’s was almost as irresistible. Nick retreated, stopping left and right, till he fell under the ropes, amidst cries of dissatisfaction, Caunt dropping on him.

12.――Ward stopped Caunt’s left and right, and almost immediately dropped on his knees, and while in that position instantly hit up left and right, delivering both blows heavily; that from his right, on Caunt’s ear, from whence blood was drawn, was evidently a stinger. Spring, who witnessed this, exclaimed against so cowardly a practice, and observed that the blows of Ward were obviously foul, inasmuch as Ward had no more right to hit when down on his knees than Caunt had a right to strike him in that position. The umpires, however, did not interfere, and the referee cautioned Ward to be more circumspect in his conduct.

13.――Caunt, lively as a young buffalo, rushed to the scratch the moment time was called, and immediately made play. Nick, as usual, retreated, when Caunt endeavoured to close, but Nick in his cowardly way dropped on both knees. Caunt’s right hand was up, and he was unable to restrain the falling blow, but it fell lightly, and although “down” no claim was made. (Spring and Atkinson both cautioned Caunt to be more careful, for, however unintentional, if he struck his opponent when down the consequences might be serious.)

14.――Caunt led off, and caught Nick on the side of his head with his left, and repeated the dose on the opposite side with his right. Nick popped in a touch with his left on Caunt’s nasal promontory――Caunt missed a terrific hit with his right, and Nick went on his knees to avoid punishment.

15.――Caunt, who was now evidently provoked by the cowardly game of Ward in getting down in every round, the moment he came to the scratch rushed to him, and endeavoured to get him within his grasp in such a way as to be enabled to fall with him. Unluckily, however, instead of catching him round the body he caught him round the neck, and, in this manner, lifting him off the ground, for a short time held him suspended. He then let him go, but did not succeed in giving him the _scrunch_ he contemplated. Instead of this, he hit the back of his own head against the stakes, and incurred an ugly concussion.

16.――Caunt came up full of life and frolic, and was first at the scratch. Nick made play with his left, but Caunt stopped and got away. Caunt hit short with his right, and after a short pause right-hand hits were exchanged――Nick at the head, Caunt at the body. Caunt immediately closed, and caught Nick’s pimple under his arm, but Nick slipped down, and looked up as if expecting to be hit.

17.――Trifling exchanges, when Nick again provokingly slipped on his knees.

18.――Caunt led off, planted his left slightly, and Nick down on his knees. Caunt looked at him derisively and laughed, exclaiming, “It won’t do to-day, Nick.”

19.――Caunt still fresh as a four-year-old, and first to the scratch, Nick evidently fearful of approaching too near. Caunt made a feint, with his left, and then delivered a tremendous round right-handed blow on the base of Ward’s ribs; the blow was too high, or it might have told fearfully. Nick let go his left, and Caunt jumped back, but again coming to the charge Ward retreated. Caunt following him up again seized him with a Herculean grip round the neck, lifted him clean off the ground, and then fell squash upon him.

20.――Some tolerably good exchanges, in which Nick hit straightest, but immediately went down――Caunt pointing at him with contempt.

21.――Nick tried his left and right, but missed, his timidity evidently preventing his getting sufficiently near to his man. Caunt again seized him, lifted him up, and fell upon him, but lightly.

22.――Caunt hit short at the body with his right, and tried his left, which was stopped. Counter-hits with the right, ditto with the left, when Nick went down.

23.――Ward planted his left heavily on Caunt’s mug, and opened his previous wounds; this he followed with a touch from his right on the ear. Caunt rushed wildly to the charge, but Nick, as usual, tumbled, this time rolling over away from Caunt.

24.――Caunt rushed forward, and delivered his left and right on Ward’s nob, the first on his nose, the second on the side of his head; Ward’s nose again trickled with the purple fluid. Nick went down on his knees, amidst shouts of disapprobation.

25.――Caunt delivered his left on the head and right on the body, with stinging effect, and Nick went down.

26.――Nick again had it on his nose from the left, and dropped on his knees. Caunt, who had his right up with intent to deliver, withheld the blow, and walked away.

27.――Nick slow in approaching the scratch, and Caunt impatient to be at him. Holt cautioned Caunt not to cross the scratch till his man reached it. Caunt let fly with his right, and again caught Nick heavily on the body, following this up with a smart touch from his left on the mazzard. Nick again went down on one knee, and, while in that position, struck Caunt with his left. Caunt stooped, nodded, and laughed at him, as he looked up in his face. Nick also nodded and laughed. “We’ll have a fair fight to-day, Nick,” said Caunt.

28.――Good counter-hits with the left, when Caunt once more grasped Ward, and held him up; but Ward slipped from his arms, and got down.

29.――Ward slow, when Caunt planted two right-handed hits on Ward’s jaw and neck. Ward slipped down on one knee, but Caunt refrained from striking him, although entitled to do so by the rules of the Ring.

30.――Caunt lost no time in rushing to his man, and planted his right heavily on the side of his head. Ward hit widely left and right, and went down on his face.

31.――Ward evidently began to lose all confidence, and fought extremely shy. Caunt rushed in, caught his head under his arm, and although he might have hit him with great severity, he restrained himself, and let him fall.

32.――Ward came up evidently counter to his own inclinations, being urged forward by his seconds. Caunt caught him left and right, and he fell to avoid further punishment.

33.――Caunt gave a lungeing slap with his right on Ward’s pimple, when Ward dropped on both knees, and popped his head between Caunt’s knees. He seemed disposed to poke in anywhere out of danger’s way, and any odds were offered on Caunt.

34.――Caunt rushed in to mill, but Ward had obviously made up his mind to be satisfied, and down he went without a blow.

35, and last.――Ward was “kidded” up once more by his second and bottle-holder; but it was clear that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could not draw him to the scratch with anything like a determination to protract the combat. Caunt let fly right and left at his mug, and down he went for the last time. His brother ran to him, but it was all up; and as the only excuse for such a termination to the battle, Nick pretended that his ribs were broken from the heavy right-handed hits of Caunt, and that he was incapable of continuing the contest. Caunt was thus proclaimed the conqueror, and “THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND,” amidst a general cheer, and expressions of contempt towards Ward――so strongly emphasised that the usual collection for the losing man was omitted by Holt, who shook a hat with a few halfpence he had himself dropped into it, and then put them in his pocket with a laugh.

We examined the supposed fracture in his ribs, but could discover nothing beyond severe contusions. It will be recollected that Brassey closed his labours with Caunt upon similar grounds, though perhaps with better reason. Nick was immediately conveyed to his omnibus, where he became prostrate in mind and body, exciting but little sympathy in the breasts of the general body of spectators. The fight lasted forty-seven minutes. The ceremony of girding Caunt with the Champion’s Belt then took place, and it was put round his loins, with a hearty wish from those who witnessed his unflinching courage from first to last, as well as his manly forbearance amidst cowardly provocation, that he might long retain it. He afterwards went to Ward’s carriage, and offered him all the consolations of which he was susceptible, hoping that they might hereafter be the best friends, a feeling which Jem Ward, who evidently blushed for the pusillanimity of his brother, good-naturedly reciprocated. Caunt, he said, had proved himself the better man, and should always be an acceptable guest at his house. We ought to have mentioned that Caunt, on quitting the ring, disdained to do so in the usual way, but leaped clear over the ropes, a height of four feet six, and on his way home ran a pretty fast race against a “Corinthian” across a piece of ploughed land for a bottle of wine, which he cleverly won.

REMARKS.――The report of this fight tells its own tale. Nick Ward’s conduct completely confirmed the suspicions of his chicken-hearted pretensions. He wanted that one requisite of all others indispensable to a pugilist――courage; and although his science was unquestionable, it can only be displayed to advantage in the sparring school. As he said himself after his fight with Sambo Sutton, he “was not cut out for a fighting man;” and the best advice we can give him is to retire altogether from the Ring. Caunt, who from the first booked victory as certain, sustained his character for bravery, and left off as fresh as when he commenced, although somewhat damaged in the frontispiece. His right eyebrow and cheek were much swollen, and the back of his head displayed a prominent bump of combativeness from the fall against the stakes. His hands were little damaged, but the knuckle of his right hand showed that it had come in ugly contact with Nick’s “pimple” or ribs. He was much improved in his style of fighting since his former exhibitions in the Ring; instead of hitting over the guard, as was his former practice, he hit straight from the shoulder, and having learned to lead off with his left, was enabled the more effectively to bring the heavy weight of his right into useful play. He still, however, hit round with his right, and the most severe blows which Ward received during the contest were those which were planted on the ribs and side of the head with this hand. These blows, with the heavy falls, to which was superadded the weight of his antagonist, no doubt tended to extinguish the little courage he might have possessed. Caunt was carefully seconded by his aged uncle and Atkinson, and although, had it been necessary to carry him to his corner, they might not have been able to afford him the requisite assistance, as that necessity did not arise no fault was to be found. Throughout the battle excellent order was maintained, and there were none of those irregularities observable on the former occasion. Jem Ward and his friends conducted themselves with great propriety, and submitted to defeat as well as to the loss of their money with as good a grace as could well have been expected. To the amateurs and patrons of British boxing the conduct of Nick Ward was most displeasing, and they one and all declared that they had never seen a man whose pretensions to the Championship had been more disgracefully exposed. Caunt came to town the same night, accompanied by Tom Spring, and on reaching the “Castle” was received with universal congratulations.

Caunt now resolved, after the fashion of our great public performers, to make a trans-Atlantic trip, to show the New World a specimen of an Old World champion, and to add another “big thing” to the country of “big things;” though in this America sustained her eminence by sending us a bigger champion than our “Big Ben” himself, in the form of Charles Freeman, of whom more anon.

Ben’s departure was thus announced on the 10th of September, 1841――“Ben Caunt, Champion of England, sailed from Liverpool for New York on Thursday, taking with him the Champion’s Belt, for which, he says, any Yankee may become a candidate.”

In the _New York Spirit of the Times_ of November 13th we find this paragraph:――

“Caunt, the ‘Champion of England,’ arrived on Monday week last in the packet ship ‘Europe,’ bringing with him the Champion’s Belt. He has appeared several times at the Bowery Theatre, in ‘Life in London,’ being introduced in the scene opening with Tom Cribb’s sparring-room. He is an immensely powerful man, two or three inches above six feet in height, and well proportioned. Caunt’s reputation at home is that of a liberal, manly fellow; prodigious strength and thorough game have won him more battles than his science, though he is no chicken. The following challenge has appeared in some of the daily papers: ‘Challenge――To Caunt, the Champion of England,――Sir, I will fight you for 500 dollars, three months from this date, the forfeit money to be put up at any time and place you may name. You can find me at 546, Grand Street.――Yours, JAMES JEROLOMON.”

This challenge, of course, was mere “buncombe.” After a profitable and pleasant tour, in which, as he declared on his return, he met nothing but hospitality and civility from our American cousins, Ben returned to England early in 1842, accompanied by a magnificent specimen of humanity named Charles Freeman, dubbed, for circus and theatre purposes, “Champion of the World;” and truly, if bulk and height were the prime requisites of a boxer, Charles Freeman was unapproachable in these respects.

The first mention of Freeman is in a letter from Caunt, dated from New York, December 20th, 1841, in which we suspect the hand of some Yankee Barnum, rather than the fist of burly Ben, may be detected. Caunt says, “I declared my intention of not fighting in America, but if anything can tempt me to change my intention, it will be the following circumstance:――

“When at Philadelphia I intended taking a Southern tour, but an unexpected circumstance brought me back to New York. There appeared a challenge in the papers of New York from the Michigan Giant to me; my friends at New York went to try to make a match with him; they offered to back me for ten thousand dollars a side, and sent for me to return as soon as possible. There is no match made yet, but it is likely there will be soon. I am quite prepared to fight him――he is the only man who could draw me from my first determination. This Giant is seven feet three inches high, proportionally stout, and very active; he can turn twenty-five somersets in succession, can hold a large man out at arm’s length, he weighs 333lb., and has nothing but muscle on his bones. I have all reasons to believe a match will be made. I expect to be in England in a short time if the above match is not made, when I shall be ready to accommodate Bendigo. You will oblige me by inserting some or the whole of the above in your valuable columns.

I remain, Yours, &c., “BENJAMIN CAUNT.” “New York, December 20th, 1841.”

That there were showmen before Artemus Ward, as ingenious, if not so “genial” or witty, the reader must allow. The bathos of being ready for little Bendigo, after disposing of a monster “seven feet three inches high, and proportionally stout,” and “weighing 23st. 11lb.,” is overwhelming. The “gag” is sufficiently indicated by another paragraph from a New York paper, in which the “Michigan Giant” becomes the “New York Baby,” without any mention of fistic collision between the so-called “Champions.”

“The amateurs of the Ring have been on the ‘ki wivy’ (according to a notorious ex-justice of police) since the arrival of the English Champion, Caunt. He has just concluded a successful engagement at one of the Philadelphia theatres, after having appeared several nights here at the Bowery, in ‘Life in London.’ Caunt has put on the gloves for a friendly set-to with most of our amateurs at Hudson’s ‘Sparring Rooms and Pistol Gallery,’ corner of Broadway and Chambers Street; he hits hard, and is as active as a bottle imp. But ‘a baby’ has at length been found who promises to show both fun and fight, in the shape of a young New Yorker, standing seven feet in his stockings, and whose weight is three hundred and fifteen pounds. His name is Charles Freeman, and he is about the tallest specimen of our city boys that ever came under the notice of the ‘Tall Son of York.’ He has immense muscular developments, and is well put together, with arms and legs strong enough for the working-beam or piston-rod of a Mississippi steamboat. Freeman has lately returned from a visit through the British Provinces, where he was sufficiently successful to lay claim to Cæsar’s motto, ‘_Veni, vidi, vici_.’ At Halifax, recently, some one sent him a challenge, which was accepted, but upon seeing the ‘New York Baby,’ waived the honour of meeting him, except with the muffles on. It is, we believe, arranged that our specimen youth shall accompany the English Champion back to the Old World, where, we’ll lay a pile, they’ll be gravelled to match him.”

These pilot balloons were soon followed by the return of the doughty Ben with his Giant _protégé_, in the month of March, 1842. The “sparring tours” were carried out by Ben and his Giant partner, including appearances at provincial theatres, &c., with an undercurrent of pugilistic challenges and “correspondence” kept up in the sporting papers, in which the Tipton Slasher challenged the American Giant, and Bendigo now and then offered terms to Ben himself. These do not belong to a history of pugilism, and we pass them by, with a mere reference to our notice of Freeman’s fiasco with the clumsy Tipton Slasher in another place. (See Life of WILLIAM PERRY,